


equal, opposite

by NotAllThoseWhoWander



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo, Pacific Rim (2013)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Drift Bond, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-30
Updated: 2013-09-30
Packaged: 2017-12-26 22:50:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,924
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/971215
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NotAllThoseWhoWander/pseuds/NotAllThoseWhoWander
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Grantaire is the transfer. He should have known better. Jaeger pilot AU!</p>
            </blockquote>





	equal, opposite

 

 

ONE

 

"It's Grantaire, right?"

He nods, tries to shout over the chopper's blades, realizes that it's in total vain. The young man jerks his chin upward in an easy, cocky gesture. Buzzed hair, strong jaw.

"Canadian, right?"

"French."

"Out of...?"

"Temporary posting." Grantaire yells, throat aching. "Montreal."

"Oh." The young guy—American, clipped accent—lets his lips twitch into a faint smirk. "Inland, then."

"Training." Grantaire resents the impliction—that he's too much of a rookie to have been stationed near the coast, near the walls. Where the action is. "I was in training."

"Yeah, sure. Course." A bleached grin. The chopper sways low over Hong Kong rooftops. Grantaire watches the Shatterdome swing in and out of his line of vision, through the rain-streaked window. The sky outside is dark with clouds. "So, I'm gonna show you around, alright?"

"Great." Shit, he almost said  _bon_ , and how weird would that have been?

"Usually they'll stick you with this hot Asian chick—the Marshall's adopted daughter. But she's training with her copilot, so you're stuck with me."

"That's fine." 

"Seriously, though. She's, like, bangin'."

Grantaire doesn't reply. Feels the silence grow stiff around them. 

"...unless you're not...you know, into..."

"I'm just here to—"

"—yeah, sure, of course, I wasn't sayin'—"

"No, no, I get it, totally."

The chopper lands hard, almost skids on the pad. Grantaire grabs his duffel bag, follows the American kid out onto the landing pad. Rain, cold and sudden, lashes at his cheeks.

The the American kid is leading him through the doors, and they're inside the Shatterdome, and god, this is the place Grantaire's  _dreamed_ about, but it's so huge and all concrete and cold and smells like saltwater, and holy shit those are the Jaegers that've been keeping Kaiju out for god knows how long, and he's beyond impressed. Also a little scared. 

No. _Nervous_. He's nervous.

"So," the American talks over his shoulder, walking fast. "You must know your copilot."

"No, actually."

"Really? Wouldn't figured you'd have had run-ins, him being French and all."

"That's what they told me in Montreal. I didn't recognize the name. We probably didn't go through the Academy together."

"Oh. Well."

"What?" Because there was  _definitely_ something in the American guy's voice, some kind of hesitation, restraint. "What is it?"

"Nothing."

As if.

"What is it?" Grantaire jogs, catches the guy's shoulder. "Man, what were you gonna...?"

"It's nothing. I mean, you'll find out, soon enough."

Grantaire swallows roughly, his chest constricting involuntarily. "Uh."

And then, "what exactly does that mean?"

The American kid steps away, keeps moving. A muscle jumps in his jaw.

"I just hope you're drift compatible, is all."

Which definitely leaves Grantaire with a sick, sinking sensation and an urge to chew off all his fingernails because  _what the actual fuck_ , is this guy joking? Trying to scared the shit out of the new kid? Grantaire chalks it up to the guy being an asshole. He takes deep breathes, reminds himself that he's  _good_ , that sure, there's some nasty shit scribbled in his file but that doesn't matter now, this is all off the books anyways. 

He stares back at the Jaegers. Steels himself.

Follows.

* * *

"The mess is open pretty much all night, but after, like, eleven the only ones in there are the K-Science guys. And they're fucking  _weird_ , so I'd steer clear. There're these two, the smartest, who're just  _insane_. Probably literally. Keep an eye out for the short dude with glasses and mad ink, and the tall German dude with a cane and weird haircut. Also, they're always yelling at each other. Some people say that they're, like, fucking or something and that's why they hate each other, but I don't see it."

Grantaire's head is practically spinning. The American guy (shit, what's his name? Yates? Banks?) has been talking nonstop since starting their "tour". Also, he walks really fast.

"Oh," Yates/Banks says, suddenly, stopping on a dime. "There he is."

Grantaire nearly stumbles into the kid, almost falls on his face.

 _Fuck_.

Not quite lanky—trim, that's a good word—helmet under his right arm, face full of perfect angles, the sweep of a straight nose and good jawline, blond hair halfway between curly and tangled, long enough to be hot without being weird—

"Is this him?" 

"Yeah." Yates/Banks hooks his tumbs through his beltloops. Grantaire stares. Is he gaping? Shit, he hopes not.

"Enjolras." The helmet is shifted, a hand shoots out. Grantaire stares, shakes.

"Yeah. Hey."

"...and you're...?"

"Oh." Fuck. "Grantaire."

Okay, obviously not a first-name kind of guy. He tries to avoid those killer blue eyes, the color of the fucking  _Pacific_. 

"Thank you, Yates."

So it  _is_ Yates.

"Yeah, dude." Yates looks at Grantaire. "Good luck."

Grantaire doesn't reply. He stares at Enjolras's leather jacket instead, trying desperatly to think of some kind of...conversation starter? Something to say? Anything? 

_"Français, je suppose."_

_"Oui._ "

Enjolras looks at him, nods. Grantaire feels the taller pilot's gaze rake over him—the wrinkled duffel-jacket, army green, a color that doesn't hide stains very well, the linty black jeans, all of his clothing worn out. He hasn't shaved since last night, definitely has some gross scruffy facial hair coming in. Probably looks like—

He doesn't want to say "a drunk". But. Well.

"So, we're gonna be copiloting..."

"Yes." Enjolras turns and begins to walk, briskly, across the open space. Grantaire tags along, feeling only a little like some kind of dopy lost puppy. "I assume that you've passed your training with flying colors."

"Pretty much. Why?"

"They wouldn't have assigned you to work with me, otherwise." There's an unsaid  _obviously_ in there somewhere. 

"Okay. Sure."

"You haven't piloted before."

"No."

"You must be good, then."

"Yeah. Yeah, I guess—"

Enjolras glances at Grantaire: a swift, cutting glance. "There's no guesswork here, Grantaire." A pause. "Has anyone called you 'R'?"

"No."

"I only wondered. That's LOCCENT, there: bascially mission control. Tendo Choi's the tech wizard up there. Next floor up is K-Science, Kaiju studies and biology and whatnot. I'm sure that Yates shared some particularly good gossip about the scientists."

"A little."

"He's very crass. You'd do better to ignore his slander. Doctors Geiszler and Gottleib are the best in their respective fields, if a little unsociable. You can hardly fault them for that."

"No, of course not." 

Enjolras leads him up a broad set of stairs. Rangers and techies and scientists whirl around them, everyone talking and shouting and generally carrying on. Grantaire resists the urge to grab at Enjolras's sleeve, force him to slow. Instead, he trails behind and watches the lights of the Jaeger Bay glint like lightning in Enjolras's steely eyes.

"At any rate, you'll have very little contact with the research teams. We pilots run mostly in our own circles. We'll train together, the—"

"The two of us?" A bright spark of hope flares in Grantaire's chest.

Enjolras furrows his brow. "Yes, the two of us. I trust that you have had ample experience in close contact physical training?"

" _Oui, je—oui_." Giddy, Grantaire imagines wrestling on a crash pad, only inches between himself and Enjolras...and then nothing, then only skin on skin, and Enjolras's curving lips millimeters from his own—

 _Shit. Shit_. Grantaire scolds himself; he's a fucking  _pilot_ now, a Ranger, not some disgustingly horny... _teenager_. He follows Enjolras away from the Bay, up another series of concrete steps, narrower now. The crowds have thinned dramatically. A couple of young men and women in exercise gear walk past, laughing. Grantaire watches them, mesmerized, becoming slowly aware that he's fucking  _living the dream_ right now. 

"Our quarters." Enjolras stops abruptly in front of a metal door, thick like the doors on ships. 

"Our?"

Enjolras doesn't honor that question with a response. He opens the door, revealing a small, tidy room. Bunk beds built into the walls, like berths, a single desk, bars over the single small window. A chest of drawers.

The place is immaculate.

"You're...neat." Grantaire strips off his jacket and dumps it on the vacant bunk. 

"I like to keep the room  _clean_." Enjolras says briskly, as if Grantaire is liable to track mud in on his boots and make a general mess of things. 

"Sure,  _moi aussi, je—"_

 _  
_"No matter." Enjolras removes his own jacket and hangs it on a wall hook. Then he turns to scrutinize Grantaire. "As I'm sure you are well aware of, we'll need to become very intimately aquainted with each other."

And, literally, Grantaire just about passes out. 

" _What_?"

"We'll have to be very comfortable with each other. It increases the probability of us being more compatible in the Drift. With my last pilot—"

"Yeah, what happening to him?"

Enjolras sits down on the edge of his bed. " _She_ was transfered to Tokyo. We weren't compatible. There are some thing you cannot force."

"Course not."

"So," Enjolras says, with first-date awkwardness. "You are French."

"Yes. Paris."

"I lived in Paris for a long time."

"Oh! Where?"

"Very near to the Sorbonne, actually. My father lectured at the university. Biology. I nearly went to school there, too."

"Why didn't you?"

"Lots of reasons. Firstly, I detested the systematics of it all. Wealthy students were often favored over those without means. I found it unfair, unjust, and generally deplorable. At any rate, it didn't matter. The Kaiju attacks began. By the time I was seventeen, I knew what I needed to do."

Grantaire wishes, suddenly, that his own story was as cut-and-dry. When Enjolras asks him about his childhood in Paris, he fumbles for the right words.

"My parents—we lived in—well, an apartment in, uh, the city." And there is no  _way_ that he's going to admit that it wasn't the city proper but  _les cites_ , the suburbs where crime ran rampant. Montfermeil—parts of it, at least—were more than shitty, especially on the estates. "Well, outside of the city, anyways."

" _Les cites_?"

Enjolras is not, obviously, trying to get a dig in at Grantaire but Grantaire feels wounded nonetheless.

"Yeah. What of it?"

" _Rien. C'est rien, vraiment_."

 _Whatever_. "Yes, I grew up with nothing."  _There are some things impossible to hide in the Drift_. "My mother worked as a maid in a hotel in the center of the city. I didn't go to good schools. I never planned on going to university—I never wouldn've been accepted. Guess I saw the Kaiju as a blessing in disguise."

He doesn't want to say more, reminds himself forcefully that it's  _very possible_ to conceal some things, even in the Drift.

"I suppose that we should try to find things in common," Enjolras says into the silence. "With each other."

They fumble around a little, trying to find jigsaw pieces that slide together. Siblings: Grantaire's got a younger sister, Enjolras is an only child. Parents: Enjolras was raised by his mother and father, Grantaire by a single, working mother. Schooling: Enjolras was accepted into the Sorbonne, never attended, Grantaire barely passed college and never considered university. Sports: Grantaire loves football, used to play with his friends on school teams and in neighborhood lots, Enjolras studies martial arts but dislikes competitive sports. Favorite food, movie, television show, song and book all tank. Enjolras argues ardently for classic films, no television, classic books whose titles Grantaire has heard only in passing and on those smart-people quiz shows. Grantaire is perfectly happy with cheesy monster movies, loves cheap reality shows, likes suspense novels.

"And art," he admits, sheepishly. "I like art. Drawing. A lot."

"I'm afraid that I cannot draw, and have never remotely desired to study the arts." Enjolras says, and leans back against the wall. And Grantaire has to stop himself from fantasizing about standing up, closing the distance between them, kissing Enjolras fast and desperate and putting a hand against the front of those tight pants, feel the fabric tighten more, sinfully, slide his hand under the waistband and— _fuck_ —just—

"Well." Enjolras shrugs. "Enough for tonight. Tomorrow we'll have the chance to work together in close contact fighting."

Grantaire swallows. "Right."

"Dinner goes until eleven, but we should head down about now. After a certain hour K-Science rules the place."

"Alright," Grantaire says, and follows Enjolras down to the mess. They take trays and sit together at a table, eat in relative silence. Grantaire struggles desperately for something to say, anything to break this awful stiff silence, and also he can't stop picturing Enjolras fucking naked, shit, not fucking, no, don't think about fucking anyone, don't fucking—shit—don't think about it, you idiot.  


"So. Uh. How's the city? Hong Kong, I mean. How is it?"

Enjolras looks pained. He chews for a very, very long time, takes a long drink of water, and looks generally very put-upon for having to converse.

"It's fine. I don't get out much, actually."

"Really?"

"I'm sure that you can see why my presence is usually required here."

"Well, we should go—look around the city one day. I've always wanted to see this part of the world."

Enjolras glances up. Something like—kindness? Excitement?—flashes in his eyes. " _Moi aussi, Grantaire_."

So they talk about Asia, and Grantaire learns that Enjolras has always loved the idea of traveling, did a lot of it as a kid because his mother's family lived in North Africa and then Spain and then London, and his father was always eager to take a sabbatical and do some research, usually heavy-duty stuff in South America. They'd never gone to Asia, though, and that drove Enjolras crazy. He wanted to see mountains shrouded in mist, wanted to see the Great Wall of China, wanted to go to the Thai marketplaces, see Eastern India, see Sri Lanka. 

And Grantaire—truthful, really truthful for the first time with Enjolras, Grantaire tells him about living on the estate, all those gloomy days when it rained or was dreadully cold, and the heating never worked right, and how he would sit by the window with his little sister, and they'd read travel pamphlets that his mother brought home from the hotel, he'd read them aloud to her: visit India, see elephants and tigers, come to China, to Japan, come see cherry blossoms and walk the streets of Tokyo, see Mount Fuji, and look, it's so beautiful, isn't it? 

What's her name, Enjolras asks, and so Grantaire tells him about Éponine, about her sweet face and her good heart and about the boy who wouldn't love her, who'd fallen for another girl at the college, and Éponine wants to be a singer, yeah, she's really good, works in Paris now, she's got this guy named Combeferre, isn't that a nice name? And he's really  _sympa_ , a really nice guy, and she's probably forgotten about that damn bastard she spent so much time mooning over.

People are so funny like that, Enjolras says, distantly, and notes that it's getting late.

Grantaire follows his gaze to the two scientists sitting at the adjoining table, the only ones sitting on the benches, like maybe they'd scared everyone else off. They're arguing, loudly.

"Shit," Grantaire mutters, remembering what Yates had said about the guys. At least they're...passionate. And then, "That guy—with the glasses—are those tattoos?"

"Yes." Enjolras picks up his tray; Grantaire follows suit. As they pass the two scientists, Grantaire gets a good look. Up close, the guy's talking at top speed, not even eating, while his lanky counterpart interjects loudly in German.

"Are those..." Grantaire returns the tray, brushes off his hands. "Are those  _Kaiju_ tattoos?"

Enjolras jerks his head in a quick nod. "He usually has the decency to hide them in public." 

"That's..."

"Definitely." Enjolras doesn't bother to keep his voice down as they pass the scientists again, head back to the room. "That's Doctor Geiszler—his speciality is, unsurprisingly, comparative biology. Kaiju parts, essentially. He's got those disgusting tattoos all over his arms—and elsewhere, I'm sure. He's gotten countless complaints filed against him for them, but continues to get more."

"From people who—"

"Who have lost loved ones in the attacks, yes." Enjolras sort of shrugs. "They have every right too."

 " _Oui, mais il a le droit_."

Enjolras actually scoffs aloud. "Oh, I disagree."

"He does, though. It's his—body, I don't know."

"How would  _you_ feel? If your parents had been killed in an attack, if you had to work around someone like that. I respect Doctor Geiszler endlessly as a scientist, but I detest those tattoos."

Grantaire tries to make a sound halfway between dissent and agreement. Now is  _not_ a good time to start aruging with Enjolras. Besides, he's distracted by the way that Enjolras shoulders the door open, the way his shirt rides up. Enjolras turns on the lights, dim and flickering.

"I'm going to hit the showers. I'll show you where they are." Enjolras reaches for his shirt's hem, pulls the garment off; Grantaire looks away, too slowly, he's already seen Enjolras's—fuck—shoulders and chest and—holy  _fuck_ —he's strong but lithe, and by the time Grantaire gathers up his standard-issue towel and some sweatpants and shirt he's painfully hard and this really  _isn't_ what he thought it'd be like, at all.

He follows Enjolras to the showers: down in the basement, near the lower-level dojos. More Rangers in exercise gear or pajamas or sweatsuits walk past. Grantaire tries to pretend that he's not, like, about to come in his pants like a teenager at a school dance. 

The shower rooms are blessedly deserted; Enjolras vanishes into a stall at the far end, and when Grantaire hears the water hiss on he ducks into his own cubicle. There's  _definitely_ girl's hair in the drain, which he doesn't really mind, having grown up with a long-haired and messy sister. Besides, he's painfully hard and his mind keeps drifting, unbidden, to Enjolras in the shower, to the way the water would fall on his shoulders and run down his stomach and lower, and—

_No, fuck, don't fucking let yourself..._

_  
_You are _so_ weak, Grantaire.

So, yeah, he gives in. And prays— _prays_ _—_ that Enjolras isn't going to be privy to an image of Grantaire jacking it in the shower when they're Drifting together. And that while he's doing so he's thinking about Enjolras's hands, and the way they'd...

He comes hard, stifling a moan by pressing his mouth against the damp skin of his forearm. At the other end of the room, Enjolras turns off his shower, and wet silence grows. 

Oh, yes. Grantaire cranks the handle, letting the water heat to a near-boil. He is in  _way_ over his head.

* * *

"We'll be training in Dojo Five today. Upper level."

"Yates told me we'd start in the bottom—" Grantaire lopes after Enjolras, his sleeveless shirt uncomfortably tight, feeling ridiculous already. They are going to be so, so, so outmatched, and he feels the old discomfort welling up again, the same way that he used to feel before those fuckers at the Halifax Shatterdome would swagger up, fists poised—

"You're not  _afraid_ , are you?" Enjolras spins suddenly, his gaze cutting. "Demonstrating discomfort outside the 'arena' is very frowned upon."

"I'm not  _afraid_." Grantaire shoves at Enjolras's arm. "Fear isn't a part of my vocabulary."

Enjolras stares at him for a heated moment. He rolls his shoulders back, shrugs. "Alright, Grantaire."

 _Alright?_ Grantaire watches Enjolras hurry to the elevator, step inside. He follows, tries to draw in deep breaths, steel himself. No, he's tought. Grew up on the streets, learned to fight before he could read, can throw a hard punch, knows basic...karate? Martial arts? Does it matter—god, will he be fighting  _Enjolras_?

He tries to think about anything—anything—but the possibility of going down hard on the dojo floor mats, grappling with Enjolras, both of them sweaty and breathless, limbs tangled, Enjolras's curly hair stuck to his forehead and those eyes shining and his lips parting and gasping Grantaire's name slowly, slowly...

_Shit. Shit. No. Nooooooooo._

_  
_"Uh, this is gonna be great."

"I'm sure."

"Yeah." Grantaire bounces on his heels. " _C'est cool_."

That sounded pretty stupid, and his cheeks warm as he follows Enjolras out of the elevator. He tries very, very hard (and only fails a little) to keep his eyes off Enjolras, and the way his body moves. 

The dojo is low-ceilinged and harshly lit; a group of fellow Rangers hang around the fringes of the floor mats, some of them stretching, others talking with each other. Grantaire recognizes the air of quiet judgement. Recognizes it and knows the feeling of the hard blue mat under bare feet and muscles aching and the breath-stealing sensation of being punched in the stomach, or thrown hard onto your back with a wooden bo pressed up against your chest. Sweat on your chest, arms, neck, forehead. 

"Listen up!" Marshall Pentecost clasps his hands behind his back, assuming an authoratative stance. He doesn't need to call for attention twice; the room falls silent. "First team up will be Gulati and Henderson." 

Two Rangers step onto the mat, bow to each other. 

Grantaire watches them go down, hand to hand, movements quick and unforgiving. He knows the way that they move, judge the other's punches and chops and the pull of fists. 

_Drift compatible._

The word isn't said, and it doesn't need to be. Pentecost calls for quits after five minutes. The Rangers step to the side of the mat, breathing heavily, triumphant.

They've made it. They'll be assigned to a Jaeger, they'll be permitted to join the fight. 

And then everything is kind of a blur (a panic-induced blur?) because Grantaire hears his name and he and Enjolras are stepping onto the mat, blue material hard and familiar under his bare heels, he's barely warmed up, fuck—

Turning, bowing to Enjolras, polite, watching the way that Enjolras's muscles move and oh, fuck, this is  _so_ not the time for that, you stupid horny prick—

Going down in a tangle of limbs, yeah, just like he'd imagined, but then they're on their feet again, no, Enjolras is  _not_ going to best him again, and he can see every move Enjolras makes before he makes it, charts the pull of every punch, the white of Enjolras's knuckles, the dart of his eyes, the way he shifts his stance in the millisecond before he launches himself into a kick...

"Stop!" Pentecost claps. Enjolras and Grantaire spring apart, snapping to attention. "Good work, boys."

Grantaire is trying  _so hard_ not to grin as he comes off the mat, walks side by side with Enjolras to the showers. Back in the room, Enjolras watches Grantaire change into street clothes.

"What are you doing?"

"What are  _you_ doing? Come on, you don't want to go get a drink?"

"I don't drink."

"You don't...okay, fine. We could get...dinner? Or something?" Grantaire laughs, can't help himself. Feels like he's passed the first test—and hell, he has! They both have! They are well on their way!

So when he buys some beer at the noodle place five blocks from the Shatterdome and gets a little tipsy, he just laughs it off. Laughs off Enjolras's stern, silent disapproval. Laughs at the fucking  _world_ , because tonight, all this neon around them, blinking, all the crowds, steam rising from manholes, they are a team, they are a team and they are going to kick  _ass_.

And Grantaire can afford to laugh at the world, because tonight he's on  _top_ of it. 


End file.
